


Until suddenly the bare bloodless skull

by PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Backstory, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Headcanon, M/M, Mr. Blue Skull
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 06:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4554411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Masks beneath masks until suddenly the bare bloodless skull" - Salman Rushdie</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is not a sentimental man, but he is particularly attached to his skull painting...and the memories it carries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 2006

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mid0nz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mid0nz/gifts).



> My entry for Mid0nz Mr. Blue Skull contest. Enjoy!

_No – MH_

_I will take whatever cases you give me for three months – SH_

_No – MH_

_Six months – SH_

_No – MH_

_A year – SH_

_It is your turn – MH_

_Why do they need to visit again? Weren’t they just here? – SH_

_Three months ago. It is your turn – MH_

_Why an art gallery? Mummy hates art – MH_

_She does not. And this is our father’s birthday treat – MH_

_You remember it is his birthday? - MH_

_Yes – SH_

_On Tuesday. Write it down – MH_

_I will need to borrow your card – SH_

_Funds have already been transferred - MH_

_Fine – SH_

_Behave – MH_

__________________

Sherlock could feel his brain melting and leaking out of his ear canals. He was trapped in a white room filled with pretentious people and the monotonous hum of inane chatter. He was in hell. Which in this case was also known as the Ford Whyte Gallery.

His parents’ quarterly visits to town were always a chore. He was not an effusive person and his mother had a tendency to be overly affectionate. Still, he supposed he should be grateful—he had only recently been required to share the responsibility for entertaining them.

During his detox and recovery, Mycroft had done everything himself. He collected their parents at the station and accompanied them wherever they wished to go. Before his addiction got the better of him, Sherlock had been ~~losing his mind~~ attempting to work as a research chemist. And prior to that, he had been a student (and had always come up with imaginative reasons to avoid going home to visit). But now that he had been settled for a year, was gainfully employed with whatever Mycroft and the Metropolitan Police could provide, and had a place to live (of sorts), Mycroft had decided it was time he did his share.

It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t care for his parents; they had raised him, after all. And sometimes, if he were completely honest, his mother’s coddling was not completely unwelcome. It was just that they always insisted on doing something “fun” while in town. He had never considered any of their selected activities “fun”: Tourist traps, bus tours and popular musicals were not really his area.

And for some reason, they never agreed to visit Scotland Yard’s Museum of Crime.

Today’s adventure was another painful exercise. It was not that he particularly disliked art; it just wasn’t, in general, all that relevant to anything. The gallery—a repurposed warehouse in a trendy Docklands neighbourhood—was crowded and too cold. The modern pieces were by several different artists, all of whom had been volunteers with the UN (truck drivers, inspectors, aid workers; though no soldiers, which was a little disappointing). While that was moderately interesting, he found the sculptures, paintings and multi-media installations overly sentimental, for the most part.

Sherlock ignored the art and began to survey the people milling about him with a practiced eye.

  * City boy. Gay. Closeted. Anxiety disorder. Financially comfortable. Just had intercourse with a stranger in the alley.
  * Divorced woman. One…two dogs. One child. Doctor. Alcoholic. Visiting from Bristol. Aspirational art collector.
  * Students. Art History, Law, and Classics, respectively. Stoned. Boring.



“Boring,” he muttered under his breath.

“Now listen, you,” Mummy hissed, tugging on the arm around which she had wound her own. “This exhibition was your father’s special request for his birthday. I won’t have you ruining it with your sulking.”

“I don’t sulk,” Sherlock pouted.

His mother gave him a long, hard look—a talent for which she had passed on to his annoying brother. Sherlock huffed in defeat. Margaret Holmes was not to be contradicted.

He looked ahead of them to where William Holmes was strolling from piece to piece, hands clasped behind his back and a look of absolute rapture on his face. Unbidden, a smiled tugged at Sherlock’s lips. His father was, overall, a gentle soul. It probably couldn’t hurt to allow him one afternoon of artistic…whatnot.

“I say, Sherlock,” William called, waving them over. “Have a look at this one. It’s right up your street.”

He had stopped in front of a painting—well, Sherlock supposed it was a painting. The work was hung on the gallery’s plain white wall, which provided a vivid contrast with the work’s rich blue-green background. Sherlock cocked his head as he surveyed the piece.

“Skull,” William said, sounding very pleased with himself. He nudged Sherlock with his elbow. “Just your sort of thing. Interesting, eh?”

The work was, in fact, far more complex than it first appeared. The artist had created two separate skulls, layered one over the other. A black skull had been painted onto the blue marbled background, and a silver one on cut perspex was placed slightly above it. Four bolts separated the two sections.

Sherlock took in the description of the piece from the card beside it. “Good name,” he muttered, amused.

“Sorry?” his father said.

“The artist,” Sherlock replied, gesturing to the card. “Pinkerton. Famous American detective agency.”

“Oh,” William said non-committally. “Says it isn’t for sale. Shame.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “Shame.”

“Well, I think it’s gruesome,” Mummy chimed in. “Imagine having something like that in your home. It’s absolutely chilling.”

“But this is what interests Sherlock, my dear,” William insisted. “Crime and bodies and the like.”

“Yes, but not hanging in the lounge, for heaven’s sake!”

Sherlock sighed and took one last, somewhat longing, look at Pinkerton’s skull. Mummy was tugging at his arm.

“Come along, boys,” she prompted, prodding at her husband. “I think it’s time we stopped for a cup of tea.”


	2. 2008

“Doing anything special for Christmas?” Detective Inspector Lestrade asked. He was shifting restlessly and stamping his feet against the cold. A light snow was drifting to the ground.

They were standing at the far end of the main runway at London City Airport. The remains of a body had been discovered in the early morning hours—it had been reported by a commuter pilot as “refuse” at the end of the approach. Sherlock was crouched over the largest section of the corpse with his pocket magnifier.

“I don’t understand why he’s here.”

Sherlock glared up at the young woman who glared right back with her arms crossed over her chest. Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan had been with Lestrade’s team for just over two months. Initially, she had been very impressed by him. Or at least it had appeared that way. She had not fussed about having a civilian consultant at that first crime scene. Instead, she had taken Lestrade’s recommendation at face value. She’d followed Sherlock around and asked him question after question about his methods.

For a few weeks, it seemed they were going to be able to work well together. Somehow, though, it had all gone wrong. Something he’d said, no doubt. It usually was.

He’d first connected with DI Lestrade three years earlier, at a drugs bust. His own. Or rather, he had been present at the drug den when Lestrade’s people had raided it. Lestrade had been intrigued by Sherlock’s surprisingly lucid rantings about the men they should actually be looking for. When Sherlock had cleaned up and made himself respectable, Lestrade had sought him out. By then the DI had moved to Major Crimes, which suited Sherlock very well. Sherlock had offered his assistance on a particularly perplexing series of abductions. They’d been working together ever since.

“Donovan,” Lestrade said, his voice a warning.

“He doesn’t belong here. You know he doesn’t!”

“If he wasn’t here, we wouldn’t have known about the ice pick!” Lestrade shouted back.

“He’s GUESSING!” Donovan threw her hands up in frustration. “That’s all he ever does is guess. And even if he’s right, the M.E. would have identified it. Eventually.”

“The odds against someone guessing and being right as often as I am are incalculable,” Sherlock offered, not looking up again. “Given the damage to the body, there is no guarantee the murder weapon would have been identifiable. And my way is faster.”

“You’re a freak,” Donovan snapped. “I don’t know what you’re getting out of this, but it’s not normal.”

She turned on her heel and stomped away. Sherlock sniffed, as much to signal his disinterest in her comments as in deference to the cold. He stood and tugged his scarf tighter about his neck.

“Well?” Lestrade asked.

“The victim is an illegal from Eastern Europe; Latvia, at a guess. He was smuggled aboard a passenger flight by an accomplice. At some point, an argument ensued—possibly regarding payment for his entry into the UK. He was stabbed with an ice pick and deposited in the avionics bay, where he bled out. The bay in this case has been modified for access to the forward wheel assembly. He was dropped out of the plane on final approach…which explains the mess and the lack of significant amounts of blood.”

“Right,” Lestrade muttered, looking somewhat nauseated. “Okay folks, you heard the man. We have a time of death and now we have the method. Donovan, get on to the airport and find us the flight.”

“I’ll be off, then,” Sherlock muttered to no one in particular.

“Need a lift?” Lestrade offered.

Sherlock was about to say he would call a cab to meet him at the airport’s service entrance when he spied a black saloon in that very spot. He sighed. “Apparently, that won’t be necessary.”

“Have a good holiday, Sherlock,” Lestrade offered with a smile.

Sherlock returned it, not feeling remotely festive. He hated Christmas and everything that went with it. Fortunately, this year his parents were in the Bahamas—he wouldn’t have to make a visit. Though apparently his brother had something that wanted saying on Christmas Eve.

He strolled toward the waiting car, ignoring his phone’s text notices. He refused to read his brother’s prompts to “hurry up.”

As he approached, one of Mycroft’s people emerged from the front of the car and moved to open the rear door for him. Sherlock nodded at the man and stepped into the welcome warmth of the car’s roomy back seat.

“Happy Christmas, little brother,” Mycroft said pleasantly, waving at his driver to carry on.

“What is it, Mycroft? I have an experiment waiting at home.”

“And that’s how you’ll be spending Christmas Eve?”

“How will you be spending it—bottle of whisky and transcripts of wire taps?”

Mycroft frowned. “No need to be so prickly. I simply wanted to offer my congratulations on another case solved.”

“Which you knew the answer to…when?”

“About fifteen minutes ago,” Mycroft admitted. “Still, you’ve saved the police a great deal of time.”

Sherlock harrumphed at that and settled more deeply into his seat. “What is it you need, Mycroft? As I said, I have a pressing experiment waiting.”

Mycroft sighed, gesturing to the large rectangular parcel wrapped in brown paper that was leaning against the seat in front of them. “Our parents asked me to procure something for you.”

“Oh? Left it rather late, haven’t you?”

“This is the culmination of several years’ worth of negotiation,” Mycroft replied testily. “The artist was loath to part with it. Fortunately, I was able to persuade him in time for Christmas this year.”

Sherlock leaned forward and tugged at one corner of the wrapping. His brows lifted as he saw the familiar blue background. “Mr. Blue Skull.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft said. He flicked imaginary lint from his trouser leg. “Mummy and Dad wanted to get it for you, as you seemed quite taken with it. As I said, it has not been an easy task.”

Sherlock stared at the artwork for long moments. He swallowed hard against the fluttering of tenderness he felt for his parents, for thinking of it, and—grudgingly—his brother, for seeing it done.

“Thank you.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to register surprise.

“Oh, no need to look like that,” Sherlock griped. “I am aware...Anyway. Doesn’t mean I’ll ever say it again.”

“No,” Mycroft answered, smirking now. “Naturally not.”

They fell into comfortable silence until the car pulled up in front of the humble block of flats where Sherlock was currently living.

Mycroft regarded it with a critical eye. “You really must find somewhere more suitable to live.”

“I can’t afford something more suitable on my own.”

“No. Well, then. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“And you. Try not to start any wars before New Year, hmmm?” Sherlock slid out of the car and reached back in for his painting. “Happy Christmas, Mycroft.”


	3. 2009

“Is everyone all right?” the fireman shouted into the crowd of displaced tenants.

They were huddled in the street, clinging to whatever belongings they could save, and watching as their homes went up in flames. The blaze had started in a chippy in the building next door and spread rapidly. By the time the alarms had gone off and the fire trucks arrived, there was little hope of saving the majority of their flats.

An ambulance attendant stopped in front of Sherlock. “Sir? Are you injured?”

Sherlock shook his head. Damp curls stuck to his smoke-smudged forehead. He’d managed to get out with nothing more than his dressing gown and one item. He clung to the large object, trying not to shake with the late fall cold.

“Why don’t you come with me?” the attendant said kindly. “We’ve got a bus here where you can wait until we know more.”

Sherlock shook his head again. He glanced around, calculating the time it would take for the call to register with one of the two people—ah! A silver Mercedes pulled up outside the perimeter of the scene and a dishevelled Lestrade jumped out.

“I have a ride, thanks,” he replied. He pushed his way through the throng of his fellow newly homeless and made his way to where the DI was waiting.

“Sherlock, my god! Are you all right?” he called.

Sherlock slipped past the barricade and stopped by the passenger door of the car. “I’m fine. Freezing and barefoot and destitute, but fine.”

“Here,” Lestrade said. He held up a pair of old slippers. “At least these will keep you warm until we can get you…”

“My brother’s, if you wouldn’t mind,” Sherlock replied. He leaned his one, precious, rescued item against the car and bent to pull on the borrowed footwear.

“What’s that you’ve got?”

“Painting,” Sherlock replied. He picked it up again and proceeded to wedge it into the back seat of Lestrade’s car.

“Must be very special if—”

Sherlock jumped into the passenger seat and slammed the door. He really didn’t want to discuss why he’d rescued the painting. It was illogical. Of all the things for him to have grabbed, this item made the least sense.

Lestrade slipped into the driver’s seat beside him. “You sure you don’t need any medical…”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Right, then.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes until finally Sherlock felt compelled to speak. “I…appreciate you coming.”

“No problem. When I realised it was your address, I thought I should come and see you were all right. Wasn’t sure if your brother is in town.”

“He is. Almost always, these days. Seems like he hardly goes anywhere anymore.”

"Well, he’s pretty important, I suppose.”

“He hates travelling. And crowds. And most people.”

“I guess that would make going anywhere less enjoyable.”

“If he didn’t have drivers and a helicopter, he’d probably never leave the house.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Sometimes I feel the same way. So what’s the deal with the painting?”

Sherlock cringed. “It’s nothing. Reflex. Grabbed the first thing I saw.”

“Huh,” Lestrade said. He didn’t sound convinced. “Is it valuable?”

“Somewhat.”

“Collectable.”

“Possibly.”

“Keepsake?”

“It was a gift from my parents.”

“Oh, hey, do you want to ring them? I don’t mind.”

“No. It’s fine. I’m sure Mycroft has informed them that I’m unharmed.”

“But how would he…never mind. Forget I asked that.”

“How is your family?” Sherlock asked tentatively. That seemed like an appropriate question.

“Yeah, great. Thanks. My wife and I are…well, we’ve had some tough times, but we’re working on it. My son, Henry, is ten now. Loves rugby—spends a lot of time at practice. My daughter, Chloe, is seven. She wants to be Prime Minister.”

Sherlock nodded, trying to think of a reply. “That’s…nice.”

“How about your family? Are your folks well?”

“They seem to be.”

“Any, uh, plans for the holidays?”

“At the moment? It looks like I’m going to be trying to find a new flat—though I’ll never find anything else as cheap—and replacing everything I owned.”

“Right. Sorry. Look, I’m sure it’ll be fine. You had insurance, right?”

Sherlock stared at the side of Lestrade’s head.

Lestrade glanced at him. “You know, on your stuff? Coverage in case you ever got burgled, or you know, burned out?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Sorry, mate.” Lestrade stopped the car at a red light.

“Don’t be. Some things may still be salvageable. I may be able to replace some items from the stuff I have stored at my parents’. And Mycroft may be of some use.”

“But, hey, you’ve got the, uhm…” Lestrade turned and peered at the painting in the back seat. “The…skull painting.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment. As fresh starts went, it wasn’t so bad. It was subject appropriate. It held some personal value. He could build around that.

“I suppose I do.”


	4. 2010

Sherlock strode from his bedroom, mentally preparing himself for the evening at hand. The carols were already playing and the flat smelled of nutmeg.

As he entered the kitchen, Mrs. Hudson smiled at him over a tray of “nibbles” she was preparing. She looked as though she was about to ask him something when Sherlock heard John’s voice in the sitting room. He stepped closer to the door to listen.

“Oh, don’t hang that there,” he heard John say.

Hang what, Sherlock wondered.

“It’s just tinsel,” a female voice replied, a little testily.

Ellen? Polly? Jeanie? It didn’t matter. She was just another of John’s girlfriends. Brunette. Tall. Boring.

“I know, but…It’s important to him, this painting. Let’s just put it someplace else.”

There was a pause and some footsteps. “There,” John said. “That works.”

The woman sighed. “Don’t you think it’s just a little morbid?”

“What, the painting?”

“The painting, and the actual skulls, and…whatever _that_ is.”

“No,” John said. “No, I don’t think so. Okay, I’ll admit I don’t understand why he keeps some of this stuff. Yeah, there’s the fridge and honestly you should have seen the boxes when we moved in. Of course, those were mostly from his parents’ attic—he’d lost a lot of his things in a fire...” There was a bit of a pause. Sherlock could almost hear John pursing his lips. “Never mind. But the painting is interesting, and you have to admit it is pretty relevant to Sherlock’s work.”

“Your work, too,” the girlfriend reminded him.

“Yes, my work, too,” John chuckled.

There was a muffled sort of wet noise. They were kissing. Sherlock made a face; Mrs. Hudson tittered softly.

“Anyway,” John said at last. “I know it means a lot to him. And it just sort of belongs here. It’s…unique. One of a kind. Like Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s breath caught a little.

Out in the sitting room, there was a huffing noise. Clearly the girlfriend disapproved.

“I like it,” John said firmly.

Mrs. Hudson popped out of the kitchen just then, tray in hand. “Mixed nuts?”

Sherlock followed her into the sitting room and went to retrieve his violin.

“Evening, Sherlock,” John said cheerfully.

Sherlock tried to ignore how cosy John looked in the hideous festive jumper. How the dark colours brought out the blue in his eyes. There was no point in noticing such things.

“Evening,” Sherlock echoed.

The girlfriend’s smile was tight. It faded the moment John could no longer see her. Intrigued, Sherlock watched her return to the kitchen with Mrs. Hudson.

“Thanks for agreeing to this,” John said, sitting on the sofa and crossing his legs.

“This?” Sherlock smiled back, unable to resist in spite of his mood. He’d been distracted since the Adler case began, and probably more than a little short-tempered with his flatmate. He knew he shouldn’t be.

He had become very used to having Dr. John H. Watson around. Thinking of that ever changing…a heaviness settled in his chest and he snuck another look at the dark-haired woman in the kitchen.

“The Christmas party. Having our friends ‘round. I was a little surprised when you said yes.”

Sherlock shrugged then tucked the violin under his chin and started tuning it.

“It’s just…not really your sort of thing,” John continued gamely.

“What’s not whose sort of thing?” Mrs. Hudson asked. She was making her way back into the room with the second batch of snacks. She passed the tray under Sherlock’s nose. “Come on now, Sherlock. Why not just have a little taste?”

“Perhaps later, Mrs. Hudson. Didn’t you want me to play for you?”

“Would you? Oh, lovely!” She turned away to set the tray down on the small table by John’s chair. “What about putting on the antlers—”

“Ah, no,” Sherlock said swiftly. That was a step too far. He was being as sociable as he could be, under the circumstances. Fortunately, he was saved from having to elaborate by the ringing of the front door bell.

“That’s probably Greg,” John said, jumping to his feet.

“Who?”

“Lestrade,” John replied, shaking his head with a fond smile. He paused then, stopping right in front of Mr. Blue Skull. “I’ll just leave the door unlocked and a note for Molly to come up, shall I?”

Sherlock shrugged again. He had no idea what protocol dictated, and didn’t really care. Not his area. He had John for that.

He watched as John turned and dipped his chin, momentarily framed by the vivid colour of Mr. Blue Skull behind him before he moved toward the stairs.

Relevant to the work.

One of a kind.

Belongs here.

“Well, then, Sherlock. What are you going to play for us?” Mrs. Hudson prompted from her spot perched on Sherlock’s chair.

He shook off his reverie and took up his bow.

______________________

It was nearly three in the morning when he finally ventured back out into the sitting room. John was still up, tucked into his chair in front of the fire with his head lolled back. He was snoring softly.

The fairy lights were still lit, though the other lamps had been switched off. The food and drinks had been cleared away. Most importantly, there was still no sign of Jeanette.

John stirred as Sherlock got near. “Hey,” he said, trying to sound as though he hadn’t spent most of the night babysitting Sherlock on Mycroft’s orders. “You all right?”

Sherlock strode to the window and stared out at the snowy landscape. He really had no idea how he was. He was…hollow. And yet there was something scratching at the gates of his subconscious, trying to get out.

Irene Adler was dead.

Or was she.

And why did he care?

He didn’t. Not really.

So why was he upset?

Was he upset?

What was this gnawing at him?

Turmoil. Rending.

As though something was being torn away.

Something vital.

Flesh peeled from the bones beneath.

He felt raw.

He could feel John staring at him, and finally turned to meet his eyes. John was concerned about him. He knew that. He’d barked at him several times that night. He hadn’t meant to, it was just…

John.

He couldn’t let John see.

Sherlock glanced up at Mr. Blue Skull.

“You should go to bed.”

“Are you all right?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied harshly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Do you want to talk—?”

“No.”

John stood and moved toward him. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s forearm. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want. But if you change your mind, just come upstairs. Wake me up. I don’t mind.”

Sherlock nodded, swallowing around the lump that was forming in his throat. He watched John leave the room, passing once more in front of the painting.

John was upstairs and well beyond hearing him when he was finally able to whisper, “Good night, John. Merry Christmas.”


	5. 2014

It was so quiet.

John wasn’t there.

The chair was gone. He’d removed it from the room. It was getting in the way; that was all.

Sherlock rolled his bare toes over and under as he sat in a heap on the sofa. He’d been wearing the same pyjamas—with and without dressing gown—for days. He was no longer certain how many. He hadn’t even bothered to change when Lady Smallwood turned up.

He’d said he would think about her case, and that’s what he had been doing. Thinking.

It had been some time since the wedding. Lestrade had called, but he hadn’t answered. He couldn’t imagine dealing with the Yarders without John.

He wrapped an arm around himself and shivered a little. Not from cold.

He’d left the reception, of course. What was there to stay for? He’d played; they’d danced.

No, he’d made the right decision. Leaving was the right choice. Let everyone focus on the bride and groom. The murder had been disruption enough. No sense having the best man lurking about in the shadows, not dancing or talking to anyone, or…

A baby.

It seemed so final. So incredibly, indelibly, inevitably final. There was no changing anything now.

Not that he’d ever really thought—of course he hadn’t. John was his best friend. His investigative partner. The voice he now heard most often in his mind palace.

The others were still there, of course. But John…John kept him right.

Sherlock rummaged through his memories, trying to pinpoint the exact moment when John’s voice had become more dominant than any other. But it had happened so gradually—while he’d been away. His mind had begun filling in for the lack of John’s presence while he was off hunting down Moriarty’s network.

He jumped up and began to pace. He needed something to do, but somehow couldn’t think of where to begin. Everything was jumbled. Nothing was as it ought to be.

Though how it ought to be was something he dared not consider.

He stopped pacing, face to face over a chair with Mr. Blue Skull.

The skull. Vessel for the human brain. A protective shell for that which Sherlock deemed most valuable. And yet, skulls were an important reminder of the transience of human life. Everyone dies. Everyone is reduced to a skeleton and—eventually—to dust.

Oddly, Mr. Blue Skull had never been about these things for Sherlock.

No, the painting was a reminder of parents who cared enough about him to go to some expense to get him something he liked, even if they didn’t understand it.

It was a reminder of a brother who went to great pains for him, though Sherlock was seldom as grateful for the attention as he might be.

It was a reminder of a friend who had granted him a chance when few others would have believed in him, who would get up in the middle of the night to give him a lift and a pair of slippers.

Perhaps most importantly, Mr. Blue Skull was now a reminder of the soldier who’d given Sherlock more of himself than any other person before him—who’d taken Sherlock exactly as he was, and become a fixture in Sherlock’s life. John was now as symbolic to him of “home” as the painting itself was…so valuable to him that Sherlock had been, in many ways, a shadow of himself while he was off on his own playing dead. John had saved him. And Sherlock loved him for it.

Sherlock stared at the painting. It was just a head, stripped bare of all of life’s masks. It had no heart.

But he did.

Mycroft was so very clever, and yet in matters of human interaction there was so much he didn’t understand.

_Don’t get involved._

Sherlock had never _not_ been involved. Couldn’t his brother see that?

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the message:  _Will you take the case?_

Lady Smallwood again.

Charles Magnussen was certainly disgusting enough that Sherlock felt some lingering interest in seeing him brought down. It felt strange considering taking it on without John, but he had been thinking about it. How he might draw the man’s attention.

It was for the case, of course.

Sherlock stared at the painting for a moment longer before flipping the phone over in his hand. He sent a reply to Lady Smallwood and then marched toward his room. He needed to change.

And he had some very old friends to track down.


	6. 2016

Sherlock was waiting in the sitting room. The door pushed open, very slowly, and John Watson appeared.

“Hello,” Sherlock said warmly. He attempted a casual smile.

John did not return it. He set his bag down with a heavy sigh. He looked anxious. And…

“Why are you feeling guilty?” Sherlock demanded. He took a few steps towards where John had stopped, just inside the door. He reached out unconsciously with one hand. “You have nothing to feel guilty about!”

John dropped his gaze to the floor. “I know that. It’s been…jesus, Sherlock. Everything is a mess.”

“How? How is it a mess?” He stepped in closer and placed a tentative hand on John’s forearm. “We’ve done it. You and I. We figured it out. Moriarty, Janine, Magnussen, Mary—we beat them all!”

At the mention of his ex-wife’s name (was it possible to be an ex-wife if you’d never legally been married?), John’s expression darkened.

“I-I’m sorry,” Sherlock started.

John shook his head. “No, look. We’re not going to do this. Not anymore. I’m going to have a hard time dealing with all of this, probably for a while, but it doesn’t mean I don’t…”

Sherlock looked down into the deep blue-grey eyes that now stared up at him.

“You don’t—what?”

John licked his lips. “I…I need to take my stuff. Upstairs. Get settled. You know.” He gave a half smile and backed away as quickly as he could. He grabbed his bag and headed toward the stairs.

“All right,” Sherlock said quietly, brows furrowed. “This is your home. You’re free to do whatever you like.”

John hesitated just outside the door. “Home.” He looked back at Sherlock for a long time before he finally nodded. “Right. Back soon.”

_________________________

Sherlock had ordered dinner from the old Chinese place at the end of Baker Street. All of John’s favourites. He’d special ordered the duck the day before. He was laying the food out on the coffee table when John finally reappeared.

John entered the room slowly—cautiously, Sherlock thought—swiping his hands over his hips.

“Well, that’s it,” he said.

Sherlock straightened. He had taken off his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt, and he’d dispensed with his shoes and socks. He clasped his hands behind his back, not sure what else to do with them. “Did it all go well?”

John nodded, moving in to settle into the chair under Mr. Blue Skull. He leaned over, bracing his elbows on his knees. “As well as can be expected. The flat sold. New owners took possession today. And that, as they say, is that.”

Sherlock sat on the sofa and reached for a plate. He handed it to John. “And Mary?”

John sat up with a shrug and took the plate. “I don’t know. And I don’t want to.”

“And are you…okay with that?” Sherlock tried, not really sure by John’s expression whether or not he was.

“There was only one…thing…that could have changed how this all went down, Sherlock,” he said darkly. “And once I knew that was a lie…”

Sherlock nodded hastily. Enough about the past. It was time to move on. “Peking duck?” he offered.

John accepted the serving with a broad smile. “My favourite. It smells fantastic.”

Sherlock tried not to look too pleased. He shrugged. “I, uh, just thought—you know with everything going on today…I thought you might be hungry, is all.”

“Starving,” John said.

The spoon thumped wetly onto the table as it slipped from Sherlock’s fingers. He froze, wanting desperately to look into John’s face and see confirmation there that John remembered, too. He peered up cautiously to find John beaming at him.

The tension that had been tying knots in his shoulders for days (weeks, months) dissipated in an instant.

John was home.

________________________

It was nearly midnight by the time John finally roused himself.

They’d settled onto the sofa with a bottle of whisky to watch the news (at John’s insistence) and Graham Norton (at Sherlock’s) before dozing off to an old Bond film (Sherlock let John think he was insisting). They’d been sitting side by side, but somehow—in sleep—they’d slid into each other, heads nearly touching where they leaned back against the sofa.

John sat up and stretched, shifting Sherlock from his comfortable spot. Sherlock jerked awake.

“What? What is it?” he half shouted, disoriented.

“S’nothing, Sherlock,” John yawned. “S’just time for bed. God, I really need to get some sleep.”

“Mmm, right,” Sherlock muttered blearily. “Sleep. Yup.”

John chuckled and patted Sherlock’s thigh. “You sound as done in as I feel. Come on, you.”

He stood and reached back in an effort to haul Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock had been more than a little tipsy when he’d fallen asleep. With that and being as sleepy as he was, he was hopelessly clumsy. He stumbled forward into John.

“Whoops!” John caught him, narrowly keeping them both from piling onto the floor. “Steady on!”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Sherlock muttered, trying to gather himself…and failing to when facing the lovely warmth of John’s chest against his own. The lovely feel of John’s plaid shirt where his fingers clung to the fabric over John’s shoulders. The hint of John’s after-shave and the homely scent of whisky and spicy Chinese food. He didn’t want to stand up. He didn’t want to let go.

John staggered back a bit under Sherlock’s weight. Not trying to get loose, as such, but not leaning in either.

“Sherlock…” he started, looking concerned. “We…don’t…shouldn’t…oh, god.”

Sherlock shoved heavily into John’s body as he recklessly and awkwardly smashed his mouth into John’s.

The chair behind John lurched out of the way with a horrible squeal of wood on wood. John had let go of Sherlock and was reaching behind him for some kind of purchase to keep them both from collapsing altogether. But Sherlock didn’t care. How could he? He was kissing John Watson. His John. And John was kissing him back. Warm lips were attempting to guide his own and he tried to follow.

John grunted and tripped, falling sideways into the wall with a thud. Sherlock slammed into him, pushing the breath from his body. John wrapped one arm around Sherlock’s lean frame and held on, trying to regain his own balance and keep Sherlock upright.

“John…” Sherlock mumbled into his mouth.

“Sherl—fuck, you taste so…”

Sherlock pulled back, eyes narrowed. “Is this…not good?”

John shook his head, bringing one hand up to caress Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s very, very good. We…we should have done this—”

He was interrupted by the squeaking sound of a nail removing itself from plaster. Sherlock and John both jumped sideways as Mr. Blue Skull slipped to the floor with a bang.

“Shit!” John released Sherlock and bent to retrieve the painting. “I’m sorry. I know how much this means to you.” He set the piece down on the chair.

Sherlock watched as John checked it over, looking for damage. He couldn’t help the smile that crept across his face.

“Looks like it’s okay, though.” John turned back to face him. “It’s okay. You all right?”

Sherlock nodded. He was still a little short of breath, his heart still racing. John’s hair was standing on end where Sherlock’s fingers had mussed and dug in.

John reached up to run his thumb over Sherlock’s bottom lip. He nodded in the painting’s direction. “It reminds me of you, you know. You and this flat. I used to think it was a bit like you—all moody and mysterious and dramatic. And sort of ruthlessly cranial.”

John cocked his head as he regarded Sherlock’s expression—which Sherlock knew was probably very revealing. _No more masks, John._

“It’s more me than you know,” Sherlock said softly. “It reminds me of some of those who mean the most to me. You most of all. A skull hides nothing. Bones laid bare.” He reached for John’s hand. “I can’t hide anything from you anymore. I don’t want to.”

John looked down at their hands and twined his fingers with Sherlock’s. He nodded his understanding, but then smiled up at Sherlock with just a hint of wonder.

“I knew,” he started. “I mean, I figured it out. The picture’s just a head, isn’t it? Whereas you’re…”

“Yes?” Sherlock placed his other hand on John’s chest, feeling the comforting thumping beneath his fingertips.

John’s voice was rough. “I know I wasn’t always nice about it, but I learned. About you.”

“Yes?” Sherlock asked breathlessly.

John grinned and glanced over his shoulder. “Mr. Blue Skull here knew, didn’t you, mate?” He faced Sherlock once more. “The world’s only consulting detective is a bit of a softy, really.”

“Maybe just a bit,” Sherlock allowed, smirking.

John squeezed their hands together. “Come on. Let’s re-hang him in the morning.”

He tugged at Sherlock to follow him.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere I won’t have to feel like Mr. Blue Skull is watching me.”

“Why?”

“Because I intend to exploit your very soft underbelly, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

“My…what?”

“Bed, Sherlock. We’re going to bed. So I can hold you and snog you some more before we sleep.”

Sherlock stumbled a little. “My bed?”

“Or mine. Up to you. Is that—” John hesitated. “Is that okay?”

Sherlock felt a fluttering in his chest. “Yes. Uhm, yes, it is.”

“Good. Get the light, yeah?”

Sherlock reached over to switch off the lamp, glancing down at his familiar old painting where it sat in the chair.

With a wink for old Mr. Blue Skull, Sherlock turned out the light and moved to follow the man he loved.

**Author's Note:**

> I almost forgot!!! HUGE thanks to my dear friend and partner in crime [itsnotchancemrholmesitschess](http://itsnotchancemrholmesitschess.tumblr.com/) \- for the eagle eye editing and the awesome suggestions. Couldn't have done it without you!!


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